Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

84 - Chapter LXXXIV: An Hour of Melancholy

And so it carried, the sound passing over those starting to yawn, the day-shift whose task it was to serve the first meal of night in the dining room. Lingering over the quiet nooks before passing deeper into an attic. A safe world where a girl could hide, arms around her knees, the dress she was wearing covered in cobwebs and dust. No longer a child, yet stuck in that moment for all time. Surrounded by all the old toys. The tin soldiers. Her rocking horse. But the sound pulled away...and on. Through a window. Peering keenly over the shoulder of silence, the tawny-eyed, straggly-haired woman at its centre, polishing a rear-view mirror. And again...moving on. Quickly now. Searching from room to room until it found the target of its hunt.

An echo of its cry, giving it reason now. A purpose for sweeping beneath a door before which a variety of covered trays had been placed, all of them filled with perfection on a plate, save one—which for the sake of principle rather than keeping one's position—still contained porridge. Lucian still asleep in his bed, unaware of its presence, yet hearing a change on the wind. A storm building. Water dripping from above, and each drop preceded by his heart beating. Too fast. His breath coming in fits and starts. On the cusp of being awake. Eyes shut, his body unable to move. But his mind desperately trying to get out. Unsure now whether he'd died in his sleep. Whether every time he woke, it was a dream...and the dream was his reality.

For a moment, remembering where he'd been, his thoughts moving jerkily forward. Still able to hear his boots splashing through the rainwater. Two hundred years old and thinking he knew something because of his age. His prowess. His ability to move a grate. That if he was smart enough to forge a key, then he'd be smart enough to escape. Not just the tunnels, but his mind. The guilt. The memories. Turning back the other way. Knowing it was coming now. Knowing after so many centuries that it always got him.

The last barrel.

It burst into flame. Exploding in his face, burning his screams into the rock. His claws tearing at his skin. Writhing until he was on his knees, his flesh formed out of cinders and ash. Begging before her. Grasping at her feet as their blackened forms began to disintegrate. And he could see her. Dying. And all of it starting again. Wishing it would stop. But it never did. It just started again. Her death taking him forward. Over and over again. Arms cradling her face, screaming for him to help her...

...until he heard it.

Again.

First the wind.

The storm starting to build, the water starting to drip.

Then the statue.

Cracking.

Her feet, her legs...her torso collapsing into itself, like an hourglass sucking on its last grain of sand. Dust clouds rising above her, pushing her neck back. Forcing him to look into her face, even as she slipped from his grasp. The shoulders keeping the neck upright for a full three seconds before her head toppled over, like a corpse without a noose.

Not his wife.

Not Sonja.

Nette.

o...o...o

Fuck.

He sat up.

Sweating. Swallowing.

Awake now, but still feeling the adrenaline. Like he was still there. Hands stumbling to the side of the table, searching for his watch. Not there. And then looking down at himself...

...finally pinpointing the other reason for his discomfort. Seven hundred years of nightmares having resulted in torn sheets, broken bones, and a tendency for him to scream hoarsely until someone came running from the other side of the house. But never...